


Hate Month

by dogeared



Series: Nantucket AU [47]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-30
Updated: 2008-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the kind of month it's been: It's a blustery day at the end of March, and they're huddled on the beach at Great Point freezing their asses off, and, according to Rodney, they should have broken up by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate Month

This is the kind of month it's been: It's a blustery day at the end of March, and they're huddled on the beach at Great Point freezing their asses off, and, according to Rodney, they should have broken up by now.

* * * * *

"DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?" Rodney yells as he stomps in the back door, and jesus, startles John from his very nice doze on the couch, thank you very much. He cracks one eye open and watches Rodney fight with his hat and scarf and gloves and the oversized L.L. Bean bag they use for groceries—whoops, almost lost the milk—cheeks bright pink from the cold.

John closes his eye, and when he opens it again, Rodney's standing over him, less bundled, hair mussed, still pink. "You could help, you know," he says, and John reaches out and pokes Rodney's thigh and asks, "Did I know about what?"

"Oh." Rodney sits down on the edge of a cushion, and John inches over to make room for him. "Teyla said that people have fights and break up on Nantucket in March, because of the cold and the grey and seeing the same six people no matter where you go on island all winter, and the woman at the Bake Shop said something about it to me too, only I'd assumed she was just testing the waters for when she makes her move on you, and I can't believe you didn't tell me about this when it's a whole _thing_."

Rodney's staring at his hands when he's done, worrying his thumbnail, and John nudges their hips together and says, "Hey."

Rodney keeps right on staring and worrying, so John pokes his thigh again and then squeezes, and saying, "It's not mandatory or anything, Rodney," is apparently the wrong thing, because Rodney mutters, "No, just statistically likely," and levers himself off the couch again.

John lets him go, but he digs out some emergency candles later and makes sure they're glowing on the table for dinner.

Rodney's on the phone with Ronon the next morning and every morning after that, checking in to make sure he and Teyla haven't had a giant falling out yet—as far as John can tell, Ronon says, "Nope," and hangs up, which seems to satisfy Rodney. (John tries to tell him that he's pretty sure Ronon and Teyla aren't _together_ together, but Rodney insists that friends can break up too, and that he doubts hate month's that picky anyway.)

Rodney won't let go of the idea that they're about to reach some kind of expiration date, so John snags one of his sharpies and starts crossing out days on the calendar in the kitchen, kissing Rodney's crooked mouth or ruffling his hair for every red X.

He finds reserves of fond patience he didn't know he had. He curls close against Rodney's warm back at night, and scrapes the ice off the windshield on mornings when Rodney takes the car out, and keeps an eye on him when he's tapping away on his laptop, papers spread out over the kitchen counter, and John's seen Rodney frustrated and angry and annoyed and exhausted, but he's never seen him look so defeated.

It's a little shocking, really, to find himself in the position of the emotionally steady one, except, of course, that he'd wanted exactly this, _exactly_ this, back at the end of the summer, when hoping seemed like the stupidest, bravest, most reckless thing he could do—he'd wanted Rodney with him through the long winter, just like this, and Rodney doesn't seem to get that _this_ is new and exciting and sustaining, after so much time alone.

* * * * *

John crosses off another day on the calendar that's mostly made up of red Xs now, and he's pressing a kiss to Rodney's temple and putting the cap back on the marker when Rodney says miserably, "I wish we could just get it over with. I mean, I don't mean that, of course I don't mean that, it's just . . . the anticipation is killing me," and John says, "Okay, you know what? Come on," and he's not gentle at all as he hauls Rodney out the door.

It's cold and raw on the beach at Great Point, an hour later; the wind slams the Wagoneer's doors shut for them, spits sand and surf into their faces and cuts right through all their layers like they haven't bothered to dress for the weather at all, and John thinks maybe this wasn't his best idea ever.

He stares out at the ocean, and it's the same steel color as the sky, dotted with whitecaps, and he asks, loudly enough that Rodney can hear him over the wind, "Remember when we came out here in the spring?" He sees Rodney nod out of the corner of his eye. "I wanted to kiss you so badly, but I was making myself wait. I was so sure I was going to screw up whatever we had going."

"You kissed me that night, though," Rodney says, chin up, and John remembers it, the way Rodney smelled like salt and sand and beer, remembers how hot his own skin felt, how he itched to touch Rodney until he couldn't stand it anymore.

"I did," he nods solemnly. "Couldn't resist you."

John turns to look at him, and Rodney snorts and shivers and mumbles, "I hate you."

And John tugs him closer, maneuvers them so that he's sheltering Rodney from the worst of the wind, dips cold fingers down the back of Rodney's collar, leans in, leans in, and says, sure enough for both of them, "No, you don't."


End file.
